


The Break

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Post-Series, slight dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-12 06:30:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2099076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ficlet, based on the prompt: <i>She’s delusional and he lies to her all the time until she can’t take it anymore.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Break

“I love you,” he rasps against her ear, the hair of his beard scratching against her cheek. It will be red and irritated when they pull apart, a mark upon her that will sting slightly, that will remind her that he was here. The heated flush that is now on her cheeks will fade but that will remain, a blush of shame on a woman who had conditioned herself not to feel it. 

He has said those words to her before, always in moments like this one, when he could present himself as vulnerable. He told her a lot of things, in various states of sobriety, in various whispered tones so that she could judge one statement against the other, could separate the truth from the lies. 

She does not know why it is this instance that does it, that shatters her. It’s like a dam breaking against a storm after it had been battered for years.

It’s the combination of so much; it has to be. His words imply something that she long suspected he was incapable of giving, though she had never voiced it to herself. They were honeyed, dripping with a sense of romanticism neither of them had ever completely killed, and that part of her had always devoured them greedily. That part of her still, after all this time, searched for some trace of affection, dug her fingers into it without another word. That part of her thought it came from Petyr, from the boy he had been. That part of her dismissed the marks he left on her, the suffocating  _need_ in every movement, every word.

Petyr was buried deep inside her, thick and hard. She feels him in every inch of her body, her muscles taut against him, his movements sharp and bruising. She will continue to feel him after he left this bed, after they returned to the safety of their masks. The ache he leaves in her will linger long after she puts on her widow’s weeds once more. The emptiness between her legs will work its way upward until it can continue to feast upon her heart. 

But for now he has her, pinned underneath him, his words soft.  _I love you_. He was not looking at her when he said that. His face had been buried in her hair, the wave of Tully red spread against her pillow.

She digs her nails in tight and does not respond. Her hips move against him with quick movements, her whole body trying to lose itself in the flesh, trying to push away these thoughts until later, when she’s alone. It’s no good. She can feel a crushing weight on her chest, as if she had finally gone hollow and was liable to break.

It’s all so suffocating, her heart pounding with more ferocity than she had ever felt before. He’s kissing her neck, biting at the pale skin. It was meant in affection but she felt none of that now, staring up at the canopy of the bed, the dark expanse taking the whole of her vision. He had called her clever, he had taken a hand in her education, he had wrapped her in a false sense of trust. But it had been nothing more than another mask he wore, a hollowed out thing liable to crack at any moment, as it did now.

She had thought she could tell Petyr from Littlefinger. She wondered, now, if Petyr still even existed.

She struggles to breathe, her throat constricting. Her nails continue to dig into his back, deeper and deeper until pain crosses his face, until he pulls back but not out, his eyes wide and wild, searching her face in the dark.

Sansa was pushing at him then, hands grasping any bit of flesh she could reach, trying to mark him, trying to find a distance. She’d grown tangled in the sheets, her vision hazed by what could only be tears. He separated from her quickly then, his eyes hard, and nothing she saw there was love.

Her throat aches; she must be screaming. Petyr lunges for her then, hand tight against her lips, pressing her down into the mattress, hushing her.

They must not make a scene.

 


End file.
